Chapter 19: The Balance of Extremes
A dull, pervasive ache was the first thing Shirou Emiya recognized upon returning to consciousness. It wasn't the sharp pain of a wound, but the deep, nagging agony of every muscle protesting, of every bone feeling like cracked glass. The second recognition was the smell: of damp earth, fresh grass, and ozone, still lingering in the air like the ghost of his own miracle.
He opened his eyes. He wasn't in his room. He lay on the futon in the living room, under the dim light of the following day's dawn filtering through the windows. The sight of the familiar ceiling was a relief, but the figure sitting beside him, illuminated by the golden light of sunset, made him hold his breath.
Gilgamesh. She wasn't on her improvised throne, but on a simple stool that, nonetheless, seemed like a throne beneath her posture. Her golden hair cascaded like a waterfall over one shoulder, and her ruby eyes observed not the garden outside, but her own hands. On the palm of one, a small crystal vial carved in the shape of a vine contained a liquid that emitted a calm, golden light. From the other hand, from her fingertips, fell minuscule drops of that same substance onto Shirou's chest, right where the burning echo of his core pulsed. Where they fell, the sharpest pain softened, replaced by a dense, healing warmth.
— G-Gil…?— His voice came out rough, as if he hadn't used it in days.
The scarlet eyes shifted to him. A slight smile, not of mockery, but of an artist's satisfaction, curved her lips.— Ah, you awaken. For being the incarnation of a phenomenon, you have a lamentably mundane constitution, Wandering Star. Depleting your own Od to the point of extinction isn't dramatic flair, it's ineptitude.
Shirou tried to sit up, but a slight movement of Gilgamesh's hand, without touching him, kept him in place with a gentle but absolute pressure on his shoulder.
— Stay still. This nectar is merely a reminder to your body of how vitality should feel. It is the most basic of luxuries. A king should not be seen prostrate on his own floor by the beauty he creates.— She stopped dripping and closed the vial, which vanished in a flash of light.— Next time, ration your splendor. The masterpiece that commits suicide on its first stroke is a banal tragedy.
Before Shirou could respond, a shadow interposed itself in the light from the sliding door leading to the garden. Kiritsugu was there, his silhouette outlined against the orange sky. He didn't say a word. His tired gray gaze went first to Shirou, confirming he was conscious, and then fixed on Gilgamesh. It wasn't a look of gratitude. It was the look of a man watching a tiger that had just healed the paw of a fawn it had accidentally crushed itself. A cold evaluation, full of distrust and deep resentment.
Gilgamesh didn't turn, but her smile widened a millimeter, as if she could feel the sting of that gaze on her back.
— The watcher returns. Your cub breathes, Magus Killer. You can stop rending your garments in the shadows.
Kiritsugu entered the room, ignoring her completely. He knelt on the other side of the futon, his calloused hand seeking Shirou's pulse with a clinical precision that betrayed old habits.
— How do you feel?— He asked, his voice low and grave.
— Like I was… rethought from the inside,— Shirou murmured.— But… better.
— Don't do that again.— Kiritsugu's order was flat, but the weight behind it was monumental. He wasn't referring only to the exhaustion.
— It was… necessary,— Shirou replied, and in his eyes, still veiled by fatigue, Kiritsugu saw a flash of the same stubbornness that had led him to create an impossible garden years ago. It wasn't disobedience. It was conviction.
Gilgamesh let out a low chuckle.— Listen to him. The chick has instinct. You cannot prune a phoenix's wings and expect it to be anything more than a chicken.
Kiritsugu finally looked up at her. The air between them thickened, charged with a history of fire, mud, and betrayal that Shirou couldn't fully comprehend.
— Speak plainly,— Kiritsugu said, and his voice lost all pretense of civility. It was the tone of the Emiya Kiritsugu he had buried a decade ago.— What game are you playing? Why are you here?
Gilgamesh rose, stretching with the indolent elegance of a great feline. The evening light enveloped her, making her hair and skin seem made of the same molten metal.
— I play what I have always played, survivor. To be the spectator of the human drama. And your son…— Her gaze settled on Shirou, and this time there was no amusement, but an insatiable, ancient curiosity.— Is the most interesting character to appear on this decrepit stage in centuries. A walking anomaly. A breathing miracle. I don't "play" with him. I observe him. And I will ensure that no petty dogma, nor any misguided paternal fear, clips his wings before their time. Because if it does, it would be a crime against potential itself. And I punish crimes against the beauty of chaos.
It was a declaration of intent, an arrogant claim of ownership. Kiritsugu held her gaze, and in his eyes, Shirou saw the rapid calculation of a man weighing probabilities of survival, of threats, and finding all the bullets in his revolver lamentably useless.
— If something happens to him…— Kiritsugu began, but Gilgamesh interrupted him with a laugh of scornful amusement.
— What? What will you do, Magus Killer? Shoot me with your gunpowder toy? Use that magecraft against time that eats you from within?— Her laugh faded, and her expression became serene and terrible.— Your usefulness in this play ended ten years ago. Now you are a stage prop. Act like one. Tend the curtains. But do not interfere with the main performance.
Without waiting for a response, she stepped out into the garden, leaving father and son in a silence charged with helplessness and unanswered questions.
* * *
The following morning arrived with the visit of a storm, but not a meteorological one.
Shirou, still weak but able to move, was drinking a bitter tea that Kiritsugu had prepared— an herbal mixture that smelled of hospital and worry— when the doorbell rang with an insistence that could only mean one thing.
Kiritsugu, with a quick and silent movement, vanished towards the back of the house like a ghost. The order was tacit but clear: She must not know I'm here.
It was Shirou who, with a staggering step, opened the door.
Rin Tohsaka stood on the threshold, but it wasn't the impeccable, controlled Rin from school. Her hair was slightly disheveled from what seemed like a run, her blue eyes blazed with a mix of concern and barely contained anger, and in her right hand she held a diagnostic crystal that pulsed with an anxious, reddish light.
— Emiya!— She exclaimed, without preamble.— Are you conscious? Intact? What the hell happened last night?! The magical resonance wave that came from here set off all my alarm crystals and nearly melted the anomaly sensor I have on the roof!
— Tohsaka, calm down…— Shirou tried to say, but she had already swept past him, entering the house with the authority of a general inspecting a battlefield.
And she stopped dead.
Gilgamesh was lounging in the doorway leading to the dining room, one arm propped against the frame. She wore a simple red silk robe that, on her, seemed like an evening gown, and her golden hair fell freely over her shoulders. She made no threatening move. She was just there, watching the newcomer with an expression of amused recognition, as if she had been waiting for this encounter.
Rin froze. All her magus senses, sharpened by years of training and paranoia, screamed at once. There was no detectable magical aura, no display of power. But there was… presence. An overwhelming, innate quality of absolute and arrogant sovereignty that filled the room more than any spell. It was like standing before an infinite golden cliff. Rin's instinct, sharper than her knowledge, whispered one word: Danger. Danger of a magnitude different from any monster or spell she had studied.
— And you… who are you?— Rin asked, and her voice, for the first time since Shirou had known her, held no trace of irritation or confidence. It was cautious, measuring the ground.
— I— Gilgamesh replied, her voice honeyed and dangerous— am the reason this fascinating walking chaos knocked on your door, little teacher. The spark that lit the fuse. You may consider me his Guide.
Rin blinked. "Guide". The word resonated with an implication that made her frown.— You… you sent him to me?
— Indirectly!— Gilgamesh laughed, as if they had shared a joke.— I indicated he needed foundations. And you, in your adorable orthodoxy, are the most competent foundation factory in this corner of the world. So, in a way, you work for me. You teach what I deem necessary for him to learn.
Blood rushed to Rin's face. It wasn't shame, it was pure indignation.— I don't "work" for anyone! And certainly not for… for some…!
— For some what?— Gilgamesh asked, leaning slightly forward, her scarlet eyes seeming to gleam with malicious interest.— For an entity whose mere aspect tells you you're out of your league, Tohsaka heir? Relax. Your function is valuable. You are the anvil upon which the steel will be forged. I am the fire that heats it. Without the anvil, the steel spills. Without the fire…— She made a dismissive gesture towards Shirou.— it remains a cold, useless piece of metal. We are both necessary. But not… equivalent.
It was a diplomatic declaration of war. Rin clenched her fists, swallowing her fury. There were too many unknowns, too much latent power in that woman. Attacking would be idiotic. But yielding… was not an option.
— Shirou,— Rin said, averting her gaze from Gilgamesh as if she were a sun she couldn't stare at directly.— The circle. You must have used one, right? Show me.
Shirou, with a wry smile and feeling like a piece of meat in a discussion between lions, guided her to the center of the living room, where the wooden floor was permanently scorched in a complex, monstrous pattern. Rin knelt, running her fingers centimeters from the marks. Her diagnostic crystal buzzed furiously.
— This… this is an abomination,— she whispered, her anger giving way to awe and horror.— Basic projection patterns… intertwined with reverse containment seals, imaginary reality symbols… It's as if you took ten books from different magical schools, ripped them out, and pasted them together at random! This circle shouldn't do anything! It should have exploded and taken the whole house with you!
— And yet,— Gilgamesh's lilting voice came from behind— it made a garden. A living garden. Isn't that more interesting than an explosion?
Rin stood, facing Gilgamesh.— It's reckless! It's methodological heresy! Without a solid Foundation, without following principles, all you create are accidents waiting to kill someone!
— Precisely!— Gilgamesh clapped, delighted.— Accidents are the salt of existence! The predictable is boring. He doesn't need your Foundation, girl. He is a walking Foundation. A new one. And he writes the rules as he goes.
— That's not power, it's a magical disorder!— Rin shouted, turning back to Shirou.— If you keep down this path, either the Association will notice you, or you'll accidentally kill yourself and everyone around you!
Shirou had been listening in silence, the weight of both perspectives crushing him. Rin's cold, protective logic. Gilgamesh's risky, glorious call. Both were right. Both were wrong.
— Then…— He said, and his voice, weak but clear, cut through the argument.— Why not both?
Rin and Gilgamesh looked at him, each with a different skepticism.
— I learn with you, Tohsaka,— Shirou continued, looking at Rin.— The theory, the correct circles, the control. Everything. To have… a foundation. To not go crazy or explode.— Then, he turned his head towards Gilgamesh.— And sometimes, with you… I experiment. I try… to make what I want to happen, happen, not what the books say. In a safe place. Controlled. To see… what I really am.
The proposal fell into a stunned silence.
Rin broke it first.— Are you suggesting a… a dual tutelage? With her? That's insane!
— It's practical,— Shirou countered, a spark of his own stubbornness showing in a smile.— You said it yourself, my power doesn't follow the rules. Maybe… I need to learn the rules to better know how to break them when necessary.
Gilgamesh watched him, and in her eyes appeared a gleam of perverse, genuine pride.— The chick has more vision than the school hen. I accept. I will be the fire that shapes what the anvil prepares. It will be… entertaining to see how he balances on the tightrope.
Rin looked at Shirou, then at Gilgamesh's insufferable smile, then back at Shirou. She saw the determination in his eyes. The same that had made her accept him as a student. She sighed, a long, tired exhale of someone accepting a tactical defeat to win the war.
— Fine,— She conceded, each word an effort.— But I set the curriculum. I decide when he's learned enough about a subject to… "experiment". And if I see the slightest risk of self-destruction, this ends. Clear?
— Crystal clear, little tutor,— Gilgamesh said, with a mocking bow of her head.